The Filly on Fire
by Sparkers16
Summary: As an experiment, I decided to make a ponification of the Hunger Games with Applejack as Katniss. Note that this is almost identical to the original book. I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES OR MY LITTLE PONY.
1. Chapter 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. I stretch out my hoof, seeking Applebloom's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with Granny Smith. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one foreleg. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Applebloom, curled up on her side, cocooned in Granny Smith's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my grandmother looks younger, still worn and wrinkled but not so beaten-down. Applebloom's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the apple blossom for which she was named. Granny Smith was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Applebloom's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest dog. Mashed-in snout, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Applebloom named her Winona. She hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think she still remembers how I tried to drown her in a bucket when Applebloom brought her home. Scrawny pup, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Applebloom begged so hard, cried even, I had to let her stay. It turned out okay. Granny Smith got rid of the vermin and she's a born herder. Even catches the occasional sheep. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Winona the entrails. She has stopped growling at me.

Entrails. No growling. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my hoofs. I tuck my long blonde braid into my favorite hat, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and dogs alike, sits a perfect little apple. Applebloom's gift to me on reaping day. I put the apple carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of Ponyville, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Stallions and mares with hunched shoulders, blistered hoofs, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their scraggly fur, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the Everfree Forest, in fact enclosing all of Ponyville, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be magically electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods (packs of Timberwolves, lone Manticores, Cockatrices) that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means magic is running through the fence. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the forest here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the monsters out of Ponyville. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like rabid animals and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My grandfather knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the Everfree is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my grandfather along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My grandfather could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Sun Army turns a blind eye to us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anypony is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming Ponyville would never have been allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the Everfree Forest to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of Ponyville if trouble arises. "Ponyville. Where you can starve in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared Granny Smith to death, the things I would blurt out about Ponyville, about the alicorns who rule our country, Equestria, from the far-off city of Canterlot. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that nopony could ever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Equestria Games. Applebloom might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the forest waits the only pony with whom I can be myself,Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gusty Gale says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hey, AJ," says Gale. My real name is Applejack, but over time, the nickname, "AJ," became a thing.

"Look what I shot." Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hoofs, pull out the arrow with my mouth, and hold the puncture in the crust to my muzzle, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. Gale must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost ya?"

"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feelin' sentimental this mornin'," says Gale. "Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we, sugarcube?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. "Applebloom left us an apple." I pull it out.

His expression brightens at the treat. Apples are pretty common in Ponyville, but it's rare to see a perfect one like this. The smoke from the coal mines makes the apples easier to bruise. "Thank you kindly, Applebloom. We'll have a real feast." Suddenly, he falls into a Canterlot accent as he mimics Rarity, the maniacally upbeat mare who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "I almost forgot, dear! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "-be _ever_ in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of our wits. Besides, the Canterlot accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Gusty Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Same brown fur, same green eyes, same freckles. The only difference is that his mane is striped with dark and light gray. Most of the families who work in the mines resemble each other this way.

That's why Granny Smith and Applebloom, with their vibrant fur and amber eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother and Granny Smith were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, members of the Sun Army, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of Ponyville. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My grandfather got to know my grandmother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. They gave birth to my mother, who married my father, another merchant-class pony. My mother died when she gave birth to Applebloom. Then, my father wandered off into the Everfree Forest in his grief, never to be seen again.

I keep telling myself that Granny Smith must have really loved my grandfather to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the mare who sat by, blank and unreadable, while her grandfillies turned to fur and bones. I try to forgive her for my grandfather's sake. But to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the sliced apple, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, apples to buck, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the apple seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"We could do it, ya know," Gale says quietly.

"What?" I ask.

"Leave Ponyville. Run off. Live in the Everfree. You and I, we could make it," says Gale.

I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.

"If we didn't have so many foals," he adds quickly.

They're not our foals, of course. But they might as well be. Gale's two brothers and a sister. Applebloom. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still times when game has to be swapped for lard or hay or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

"I never wanna to have foals," I say.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Gale.

"But ya do," I say, irritated.

"Ferget it," he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Applebloom, who is the only pony in the world I'm certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did...even if we did...where did this stuff about having foals come from? There's never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny filly, and although he was only two years older, he already looked like a stallion. It took us a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides, if he wants foals, Gale won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the mares whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason ponies would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

"What do ya wanna do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish, applebuck, or gather.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles an' gather in the woods. Get somethin' nice fer tonight," he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their fillies and colts have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens, and, best of all, a gallon of zapapples. I found the tree where the tasty, rainbow apples bloomed, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Mane, the bony old mare who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple chunks of paraffin. We might to a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms Greasy Mane. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy manticore. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take one out, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Mane says with a wink. Nopony in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of manticore, but the Sun Army men who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the zapapples, knowing he has a particular fondness for zapapple jam and can afford our price. The mayor's daughter, Twilight Sparkle, opens the door. She's in my year at school. Among all of the brown Seam ponies, Twilight's purple fur and unicorn horn stand out like black-and-white. She and her family are from Canterlot. You'd expect her to be a snob, but she's all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine. Her unicorn magic doesn't even create too much of a barrier between us.

Today, she's wearing an expensive white dress, and her dark mane with a violet streak is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," says Gale.

Twilight shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It _is_ a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up going back to Canterlot, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Gale's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the latter.

"You sure won't be going to Canterlot," says Gale coolly. His eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can ya have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That aint her fault," I say.

"No, it's nopony's fault. Just the way it is," says Gale.

Twilight's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the zapapples in my hand. "Good luck, Applejack."

"You too," I say, and the door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don't like that Gale took a dig at Twilight, but he's right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That's true for every citizen in all twelve cities in the country of Equestria.

But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tesserae is worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Applebloom, and Granny Smith. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries a cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.

You can see why someone like Twilight, who has never been at the risk of needing tesserae, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by Canterlot, not the districts, certainly not Twilight's family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

Gale knows his anger at Twilight is misdirected. On other days, deep in the Everfree Forest, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in Ponyville. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. "It's to Canterlot's advantage to have us divided among ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't reaping day. If a filly with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I'm sure she though was a harmless comment.

As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, still smoldering underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about Canterlot in the middle of the Everfree Forest? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in Ponyville.

Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of zapapples, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See ya in the square," I say.

"Wear somethin' pretty," he says flatly.

At home, I find Granny Smith and Applebloom are ready to go. Granny wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Applebloom is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the forest and even wash my mane. To my surprise, Granny Smith has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are ya sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course. Let's put your mane up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

"You look beautiful," says Applebloom in a hushed voice.

"And nothin' like myself," I say. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae. But she's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.

I protect Applebloom in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my muzzle. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place.

Applebloom giggles and gives me a small "Quack."

"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Applebloom can draw out of me. "C'mon, let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the zapapples and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Applebloom's cow, Mooriella, and eat the rough bread made from the tesserae grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square...one of the few places in Ponyville that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

Ponies file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for Canterlot to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve-through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Applebloom, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same ponies tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everypony can claim the same.

Anyway, Gusty Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold Ponyville's population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteen-year-olds from the Seam. We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the colts and one for the fillies. I stare at the paper slips in the fillies' ball. Twenty of them have Applejack written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Twilight's father, Mayor Stallion, who's a tall, balding blue pony, and Rarity, Ponyville's escort, a unicorn fresh from Canterlot with her gleaming white fur, indigo mane, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Equestria, the country that rose up out of the ashes from the rule of an evil monster named Discord. The whole "evil monster" thing is hard to believe, but there is magic in parts of Equestria, so it's probably true. The mayor explains how two alicorns named Celestia and Luna defeated Discord. The result was Equestria, with shining Canterlot ringed by thirteen cities, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. The came the Dark Days, the uprising of the cities against Canterlot. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth, Trottingham, obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve cities, Fillydelphia, Hoofington, Manehatten, Mareto Rico, Cloudsdale, Tailbany, Pheonix, Saddleus, Los Pegasus, New Mexicolt, Delamare, and Ponyville, must provide one filly and one colt, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking foals from our cities, forcing them to kill one another while we watch...this is Canterlot's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your foals and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a hoof, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in Trottingham."

To make it humiliating as well as tortuous, Canterlot requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every city against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their city will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, Canterlot will show the winning city gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past Ponyville victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Berry Punch, a paunchy, middle-aged mare, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. She's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but she's confused and tries to give Rarity a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now Ponyville is the laughingstock of Equestria, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Rarity.

Dramatic and snobby as ever, Rarity trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She glances with terror at her styled mane, which has a few hairs out of place since her encounter with Berry Punch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everypony knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better city where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the colts. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

It's time for the drawing. Rarity says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the mares' names. She reaches in, digs her hooves deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it aint me, that it aint me, that it aint me.

Rarity crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it aint me.

It's Applebloom.

* * *

_**And there was the first chapter. Trust me when I say that this took me weeks to write. And before you all go complaining in the review section about how dumb and unoriginal this is, let me just say that I haven't seen another story that takes the source material word for word. If you hate it, you can tell me, and I won't continue. Anyway, please leave a review explaining your opinion, and follow and favorite if you like the story!**_


	2. Chapter 2

One time, when I was up in a tree, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my flank. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Somepony is gripping my foreleg, a colt from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Applebloom was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her, Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because nopony thinks this is air. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hoofs dragging at the ground, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become un-tucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the un-tucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

"AB!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Applebloom!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other ponies make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my tail, I brush her behind me.

"Ah volunteer!" I gasp. "Ah volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. Ponyville hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible colt, if a colt's name has been read, or a filly, of a filly's name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place. In some cities, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, ponies are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in Ponyville, where the word _tribute_ is pretty much synonymous with the word _corpse,_ volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Rarity. "But I do believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the mare who brings the zapapples. The mare his daughter might have spoken of on occasion. The mare who five years ago stood huddled with her grandmother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest foal, with a medal of valor. A medal for her grandfather, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that? "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Applebloom is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her tiny forelegs me like a vice. "No, Applejack! No! Ya can't go!"

"Applebloom, let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they air the replay of the reapings tonight on their magical broadcasts, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give nopony that satisfaction. "Let go!"

I can feel someone pulling her from me. I turn and see Gale has lifted Applebloom off the ground by her scruff. "Up you go, AJ," he says, in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he carries Applebloom towards Granny. I steel myself and climb the steps.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Rarity. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a town with a little action going on in it. "What's your name, darling?"

I swallow hard. "Applejack," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister." Rarity obviously thinks so because of the _apple_ in our names. Little does she know, most ponies from the Seam are named after apple related things. "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everypony! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Rarity.

To the everlasting credit of the ponies of Ponyville, not one pony claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Applebloom, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of Ponyville as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Applebloom's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd crosses their chests with their hooves, makes a flapping motion with their forelegs, then touches a hoof to one eye. It is an old tradition called the Pinkie Promise. Nopony actually remembers what it means. It's occasionally seen at funerals. We interpret it as thanks, as admiration, as saying good-bye to somepony you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Berry Punch chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate me. "Look at her. Look at this one!" she hollers, throwing a foreleg around my flank. She's surprisingly strong for such a wreck. "I like her!" Her breath reeks of liquor and it's been a long time since she's bathed. Her magenta fur and mane are filthy. "Lots of..." She can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" she says triumphantly. "More than you!" she shouts, pointing directly into a camera.

Is she addressing the audience or is she so drunk she might actually be taunting Canterlot? I'll never know because just as she's opening her mouth to continue, Berry Punch plummets off the stage and knocks herself unconscious.

She's disgusting, but I'm grateful. With every camera gleefully trained on her, I have just enough time to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I straighten my hat and stare into the distance. I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a moment, I yearn for something...the idea of us leaving Ponyville...making our way in the Everfree Forest...but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered for Applebloom?

Berry Punch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Rarity is trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles as she attempts to smooth down her mane, which is starting to look messy. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our stallion tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous mane situation, she plants one hoof on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the colts' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to wish for Gale's safety when she's reading the name. "Pound Cake."

Pound Cake!

_Sweet Celestia, _I think. _Not him. _Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Pound Cake.

No, the odds are not in my favor today.

I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, a cream-colored coat, a brown mane that falls in waves over his forehead. He's a pegasus, which are extremely rare in general, let alone for Ponyville. But from what I've seen, he hardly knows how to fly. The shock of the moment is registering on his muzzle, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his deep brown eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

Rarity asks for volunteers, but nopony steps forward. He has a twin sister, Pumpkin Cake, but she can't volunteer for a stallion.

The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point (it's required) but I'm not listening to a word.

_Why him? _I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Pound Cake and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will...

It was during the worst time. My grandfather had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anypony could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. _Where are you? _I would cry out in my mind. _Where have you gone? _Of course, there was never any answer.

The city had given us a small amount of bits as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time Granny Smith would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in her rocking chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Applebloom seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now that my grandmother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost my parents, and both my grandparents, too. At eleven years old, with Applebloom just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best as I could and tried to keep AB and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that Granny Smith could no longer care for us, the town would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home foals at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hooves on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward.I could never let that happen to Applebloom. Sweet, tiny Applebloom who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited Granny's hair before we left for school, who still polished my grandfather's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then.

Starvation's not an uncommon fate in Ponyville. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older ponies who can't work. Foals from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear wails from a house, and the Sun Army is called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools nopony.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Pound Cake, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some of Applebloom's old, threadbare hair ribbons in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my grandfather, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. I tried to use my grandfather's hat as an umbrella, but with no success. The rain seeped through my fur and I was chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of the cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of ribbons into a puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my hooves. Besides, nopony wanted those ribbons.

I couldn't go home. Because at home was my grandmother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the Everfree Forest after the coal had run out, my hooves empty of any hope.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest pones. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in Ponyville. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread, cakes, and other pastries was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers through my fur, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly, a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, Cupcake, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Sun Army and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a pegasus colt with a cream-colored coat and a dark brown mane peering out from behind Cupcake's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? Cupcake went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. _Let them call the Sun Army and take us to the community home,_ I thought. _Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain._

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard Cupcake screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Hooves sloshed toward me in the mud and I thought, _It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. _But it wasn't her. It was the colt. In his mouth, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

Cupcake was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? Nopony decent will buy burned bread!"

He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and Cupcake disappeared to help a customer.

The colt never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My grandparents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The colt took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw of loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my hooves. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves into my hat and trotted swiftly away.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Applebloom reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced Granny Smith to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I put my hat and boots to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the colt might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the colt in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Applebloom and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my grandfather and I knew how we were going to survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this colt, Pound Cake, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned it the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Pound Cake and me to shake hooves. His brown eyes are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Pound looks me right in the eye and gives my hoof what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Equestria plays.

_Oh, well, _I think. _There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are somepony else will kill him before I do._

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.


End file.
